You make your deductions, I'll make mine
by PenguinofProse
Summary: Mycroft visits Sherlock between series two and three and finds him worrying over John Watson in a rather unexpected way.


**a/n This was written for a random prompt challenge - I found myself the lucky recipient of the task of writing about a tracking chip. It's also my first foray into writing Sherlock and the gang, so that's fun. Happy reading!**

Mycroft was very aware that he ought to be grateful that his brother was in this safe house, rather than in the morgue at Bart's, but he knew Sherlock Holmes better than that. He knew full well that, to him, safe was tantamount to bored, and Hell hath no fury like a Sherlock bored.

Relieved to be off the street, he tugged at his absurd facial hair until it came away in his hands. He really did abhor this disguise, much as he knew it was necessary. He seriously contemplated removing his tracksuit trousers and overpriced trainers for a moment, but of course that would leave him woefully underdressed while he visited his brother. In the toss-up of which option was less dignified, he rated _probably a drug dealer_ as slightly preferable to _absolutely starkers_.

He showed himself up the stairs, because he had been a Holmes for quite long enough to know that he would only be disappointed if he waited for a warm welcome. He found himself slightly unnerved on his arrival in the living room by just how much Sherlock had set this place up to resemble 221B Baker Street. The sofa and desk were in the same relative locations, a couple of tatty plastic garden chairs taking the places of the armchairs his brother and John has been wont to occupy in their flat. It was funny, he mused, that his brother had felt the need to put a plastic chair in the hypothetical place of an absent John Watson. Downright _odd_, actually, now he came to think about it.

Sherlock, of course, did not notice him noticing the room. Or, if he did notice, he did not _acknowledge_. Rather he continued to stare with rapt attention at something he could see on the screen of the beat-up old laptop with which the house had been furnished for his convenience.

"Sherlock, my dear, have you considered returning my calls?" He asked in place of announcing his presence.

"And deprive myself of the joy of this visit?" His brother riposted with a sardonic lilt to his tone. "I would do no such thing."

"It will no doubt surprise you to know that there are other things demanding my attention of greater national and international importance than checking up on you."

"Then, by all means, do leave."

"I only just arrived."

"Yes." His brother turned his attention away from the screen in front of him with visible effort and a loud sigh. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mycroft?"

"I'm just... checking in." He wasn't sure why he was here, really. He just liked to know whether his brother was, in fact, still breathing. Perhaps that made him sentimental, he wondered.

"Well. There we go. Now you can... check out." Sherlock returned his attention to the dratted laptop once more.

"What on Earth has you so preoccupied, there?" He allowed himself to sound at least a little displeased, even if he wasn't in the business of losing his temper.

"A map." He stated, factually and not entirely helpfully.

"A map of London." He observed, looking over his shoulder without invitation.

"Well observed."

This was an interesting development, Mycroft thought. It wasn't just a map of London, but rather a map of London on which a small red dot was flashing in a helpful fashion that was not open to misinterpretation.

"You're tracking someone. Or something." He accused. "Why would you be tracking someone? You're supposed to be playing dead."

"Calm down, Mycroft. He doesn't know I'm tracking him. I'm still safely deceased for all intents and purposes."

"Him?" Of course. The pieces all fit together – he should have seen this sooner. He was having the same man watched too, for goodness sake. Clearly he was losing his touch. "That's John Watson."

"Yes."

"I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation for this." He said, indicating rather clearly that he thought this was entirely beyond explanation.

"I planted a tracking chip in his wallet. Before I 'died'."

"His wallet? Why his wallet?" He allowed himself to be temporarily distracted by the practicalities from wondering whether this course of action was in any sense reasonable or justified.

"It needed to be something he would carry on him at all times, so a wallet, a phone, or keys. Keys are too small, really. Phones get replaced – people like to keep up with the latest technology. But a man who owns a grand total of seven shirts is not, on the other hand, likely ever to replace his wallet. Not until it falls apart completely, anyway, and by then I expect I shall be alive again." Sherlock concluded in a rather matter-of-fact tone.

"And why, brother mine, have you installed a tracking device on John Watson?" He returned to the matter at hand.

"Why does one normally install a tracking device on anyone?"

"You're right, I should have been more specific." It was exhausting, sometimes, being related to this man. "Why are you tracking John Watson?"

"So that I know whether he's alive? So that I know that he's moved out of Baker Street, as you seem intent on keeping that from me." He pointed out with no small hint of anger.

"Ah." He wondered whether he was supposed to apologise, but it didn't tend to be something he did. "I thought I'd got that one past you."

"Why would he move out of Baker Street?" Sherlock asked the room at large.

At least, he hoped it was the room at large, deserted though it was. He was certainly not prepared to answer that one. He didn't think he wanted to deal with the aftermath of letting this man realise quite how much his closest – and only - friend was attempting to move on. Taking a leaf out of his brother's book on social interaction, he left him to talk for himself for some moments while he pottered about the kitchen looking for the refreshments Sherlock was not hospitable enough to have offered him.

"Do you have any milk?" He asked at length, faced with the upsetting prospect of a cup of black tea and a brother who was still muttering about John's new address.

"No." Sherlock informed him cheerlessly through his steepled hands as he continued to frown at his laptop. "Homeless network are bringing the next supply of biscuits and nicotine patches this afternoon. If you pop down to the arcade you might manage to order milk as well."

"Your homeless network are providing your groceries?" He asked with some outrage. "I do believe I left you with the contact details of a secret service colleague of mine who was to keep you fed."

"Yes. He's been accepting bribes from the Canadians for three years now. I know the Canadians are not stereotypically a particularly murderous people, but all the same, I prefer not to trust him with my supper."

"I suppose I'll deal with that when I get back to the office." He said with some resignation.

"Yes. Why don't you run along and get on with that now?" Sherlock suggested.

"About John, Sherlock -"

"John? What about John? There's no need to talk about John, Mycroft. He's well! He has a new house, and a new job!" His brother seemed to be doing that slightly manic thing that was always a bad sign as he gestured to the laptop with excessive enthusiasm. There was something that needed to be said, he thought.

"Did you notice how much time he spent at the cemetery?" He asked quietly, and stood back to wait for the reaction.

"Yes." His brother confirmed softly. "Yes I did."

"Well. There we go then." He gestured to the laptop screen, to the evidence of the unique attachment that was Holmes and Watson. "You make your deductions, I'll make mine."

With that, he showed himself to the door and replaced his beard. Time to go back to the day job. His brother was fine, or at least, as fine as ever.

**a/n Thanks for reading!**


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